FOR THE HONOR OF THE SAN
Peter Brooks paced the sanitarium grounds like a man possessed. Hands
thrust deep into pockets, teeth hard clenched, head bare, the raw October
wind ruffling his heavy crop of hair like a cock's comb. So suggestive was
the resemblance that Hennessy, watching him from the willow stump by the
pond, was forced to remark to Brian Boru, the gray swan, that Mr. Peter
looked like a young rooster, after growing his spurs, looking for his
first fight.
"Aye, an' for one I'm wishin' he'd be findin' it," continued Hennessy.
"He's bided peaceful an' patient till there is no virtue left in him. Ye
can make believe women be civilized if ye like, but I'm knowin' that a
woman's sure to go to the man that fights the hardest to get her, same as
it was in the savage day o' the world. An' there's nothing that sets a
man right quicker with himself than a good fight, tongues or fists."
At that moment Peter would have gladly chosen either or both if fate could
only have furnished him with a legitimate combatant. But a man cannot
fight gossipy old ladies or jealous, petty-minded nurses, or a doctor whom
he has never met and whose transgressions he cannot swear to. And yet
Peter wanted to double up his fists and pitch into the whole community; he
felt himself all brute and yearned for wholesale slaughter.
Peter had come to the sanitarium in the beginning to be cured of a
temporal malady, only to rise from his bed stricken with an eternal one.
He had fallen desperately in love with Sheila O'Leary as only a man of
Peter's sort can fall in love, once and for all time. Moreover, he
believed in her as a man believes in the best and purest that is likely to
come into his life. On the day of his convalescing, when she had been
transferred from his case to another, he had sworn that he would not stir
foot from the old San until he had won her. He had kept his word for four
months. He would have been content to keep it for four more--or for four
years, for that matter--had everything not turned suddenly topsy-turvy
and sent his world of hopes crashing down about him.
For four months he had shared as much of Sheila's life and work as she
would allow. He had let himself drift into the role of a comfortable and
sympathetic companion whenever her hours for recreation gave him a chance.
His love had grown as his admiration and understanding of her had grown,
until she had come to seem as necessary a part of his life as the air he
breathed. Then he had been able to smile whimsically at those gossipy
tales. What if she had been suspended and sent away from the sanitarium?
What if she had broken through some of the tight-laced rules with which
all institutions of this kind hedge in their nurses? Sheila's proclivity
for breaking rules was a byword among the many who loved her, and the head
of the institution, the superintendent of nurses, the entire staff of
doctors, down to Hennessy, the keeper of the walks and swans, only smiled
and closed their eyes to all of Sheila's backsliding. For hadn't they all
believed in her? And hadn't they sent for her to come back to them again?
And which one of them had ever allowed a word of scandal to pass his
lips? So Peter smiled, too.
In those months he had come to read Sheila--so he thought--like an open
book. He had learned by heart all her moods, the good and the bad, the
sweet and the bitter. He knew she could be as divinely tender and
compassionate as a celestial mother; he also knew that she could be as
barren of sympathy and as relentless as fate itself. She could pour forth
her whole throbbing soul, impulsive, warm, and radiant, as a true Celt,
yet she could be as impersonal, terse, and cryptic as a marconigram. He
loved these very extremes in her, her unmitigated hatred for the things
she hated, and her unfailing love for the things she loved. She made no
pretense or boast for herself; she was what she was for all the world to
see. And Peter had found her the stanchest, sweetest, most vital--albeit
the most stubborn--piece of womanhood he had ever known. Her very nickname
of "Leerie" was her open letter of introduction to every one; her smile
and the wonder-light in her eyes were her best credentials. Small wonder
it was that her patients watched for her to come and that Peter felt he
could snap his fingers at the scandalmongers.
But Peter wasn't snapping them now--or smiling. His fists were doubled
tight in his pockets, and he clenched his teeth harder as he paced the
walk from pond to rest-house. How the accursed tongues of the gossips rang
in his head! "Rather odd the sanitarium should have sent for him, wasn't
it? Don't you know he was the young surgeon who was mixed up in that
affair with that popular nurse?"... "Oh yes, they hushed it up and sent
them both away."... "Nothing definite was ever explained, but they were
always together, just as they are now, and you can't get smoke without
some burning."... "Yes, Doctor Brainard and Miss O'Leary. Didn't you ever
hear about what happened three years ago?"
Peter's stride seemed to measure forth the length of each offending
tongue, and when he reached the end of his beaten track he swung about as
if to meet and silence them all, for all time. But instead he came face to
face with the two who had caused them to wag. So absorbed were the surgeon
and nurse in what they had to say to each other that they brushed by
Peter without seeing him. He might have been one of the rustic posts of
the rest-house or the pine-tree growing close by. As they passed, Peter
scanned narrowly the half-averted face of the girl he loved and found it
pitifully changed in those few days. The luminous light had gone from her
eyes; her lips no longer curved to the gracious, demure smile Peter had
always called "cloistered." They were set to grim determination, as if the
girl had gripped fast to a purpose and no amount of shaking or persuasion
would induce her to let go. Her eyes were circled and anxious. Peter
groaned unconsciously at his glimpse of her, while Hennessy from his
vantage-point on the stump shook a vengeful fist at the retreating back of
the surgeon.
"A million curses on him!" muttered Hennessy, his lips tight shirred.
"Sure, the lass has the look of a soul possessed." The next instant his
fist was descending not over-mercifully on Peter's back. "First I'm
cursin' him an' then I'm cursin' ye. For the love o' Saint Patrick, are ye
goin' to stand round like a blitherin' fool an' see that rascal of a
docthor do harm again to our lass? I'll come mortial close to wringin'
your neck if ye do."
Peter glared at his erstwhile friend and fellow-philosopher. "You're the
fool, Hennessy. What under heaven can I do? What could any man do in my
place?"
"Fight for her. Can't you see the man has her possessed? What an' how
Hennessy hasn't the wits to make out, but ye have. Search out her throuble
same as she searched out yours, an' make her whole an' sweet an' shinin'
again." Hennessy laid two gnarled, brown hands on Peter's shoulder while
he peered up at him with eyes full of appeal. "Ye've heard naught to shake
your faith in the lass? Ye believe in her--aye?"
"Good God! man, of course I believe in her! I'd believe in her if all the
tongues in the world wagged till doomsday. But what else can I do? Hang
around this old hotbed of gossip and listen and listen, powerless to cram
the truth down their throats because I don't know it?" Peter shot out a
sudden hand and gripped Hennessy's. "For the love of your blessed Saint
Patrick, stand up like a man there, Hennessy, and tell me what was the
truth?"
For a moment Hennessy's eyes shifted; he whistled his breath in and out in
staccato jerks; then his gaze came back to Peter and he eyed him steadily.
"Son, I'm knowin' no more than when I first saw ye."
"You believe in her?"
Hennessy pulled his hand free and shook his fist in Peter's face. "Bad
scran to ye for thinkin' aught else. 'Tis God's truth I'm tellin' ye, Mr.
Peter. I'm knowin' no more than them blitherin' tongues say, but I'd pray
our lass into heaven wi' my dyin' breath if I could."
Peter smiled. "You'd be doing better to pray her out of this miserable
little purgatory right here. If she belonged to me, Hennessy--"
"I wish to God she did, sir! But that's what ye can fight for--make her
belong."
"Easier said than done. Since Doctor Brainard came I can't get her to see
me. Read that!" Peter pulled out of his pocket a tiny folded note and
handed it to the swan-keeper. It was deciphered with much labor and read
with troubled seriousness.
Dear Mr. Brooks:
Thank you for the flowers, and the candy, and the many offers of the
car, but I haven't time to enjoy any of these things just now. So
please don't send me any more, or write, or try to see me. I think it
would be better for every one, and far happier in the end for you, if
you would go back to your work as soon as possible.
Faithfully yours,
SHEILA O'LEARY.
Hennessy snorted. "So that's what she thinks, is it? Well, don't ye do it.
'Twas betther advice I gave ye myself; hold fast here an' fight for her.
Mind that!" And with a farewell pull of his forelock Hennessy left him.
Peter watched him for an instant, then with a new purpose full-born in his
mind he turned and walked swiftly back to the sanitarium. He knew why the
management had sent for Brainard to come back to the San. The head surgeon
had been taken with typhoid; the wards were full of his special operative
cases, and Brainard, who had trained under him, was the most skilful man
available to take his place. But why had they put Sheila O'Leary on as his
surgical nurse? Why had they done this thing that was bound to revive the
old scandal and set tongues wagging anew? Peter knew that upon the answer
to this depended his decision. Would he take Sheila's advice and go, or
Hennessy's advice and fight?
He went directly to the office of the superintendent of nurses, and,
finding the door well ajar, he entered without knocking. Miss Maxwell was
seated at her desk. Across the desk, with clasped hands, cheeks aflame,
and lips compressed into a look of even greater determination than Peter
had seen there a few minutes before, leaned Sheila O'Leary.
Peter colored at his unintentional intrusion. "Excuse me," he stammered.
"Not hearing voices, I thought you were alone. I'll come again later, Miss
Maxwell," and he turned toward the door.
Leerie's voice called him back. "Don't go--want you. Something I was
trying to get Miss Max to promise."
This time Miss Maxwell colored. "It's against rules, Leerie, to talk over
hospital matters before patients, even as discreet a one as Mr. Brooks."
"I know--can't help it--need him. Besides, he's his best friend." She
turned to Peter with a strained eagerness. "This will be news to you.
Doctor Dempsy is due here in the morning--taken suddenly--major
operation--nurse just wired. I want you and Miss Max to take him on to the
Dentons if he can stand the trip. Awfully delicate operation, and it's
Doctor John's crack piece of work. Will you do it?"
The unexpectedness of the news and the request overwhelmed Peter's usually
agile intelligence. He stared blankly at the girl before him. "I don't
think I understand. If Dempsy is coming here for an operation, why should
we take him somewhere else? Why shouldn't he be operated on here if he
wants to be?"
"He thinks Doctor Jefferson is still operating. He doesn't know--"
The superintendent of nurses interrupted her. "Leerie, you're overstepping
even your privileges. Doctor Brainard was called here to take charge
because the management had absolute confidence in his skill and knew he
was trustworthy and conscientious. I think there is nothing further that
needs to be said. Doctor Dempsy will do what every other patient has
done, put himself unreservedly into Doctor Brainard's hands."
"But he mustn't." The crimson had died out of Sheila's cheeks, and she
stood now pale to the very lips, her face working convulsively. "You don't
seem to understand, and it's hard--hard to put it into words. Doctor
Brainard is young--very young for his position and all the responsibility
that has been heaped upon him. His work ever since he came has been
terrific--eight and ten majors a day, Sundays, too. It's been a fearful
strain, and now to make him responsible for a case like Doctor Dempsy, a
case that takes great delicacy and nerve, one that is bound to attack his
sympathy and his reputation at the same time, why--why, it isn't fair.
Can't you see that if he should fail, no matter how blameless he might be,
it would stick to him for the rest of his life, a blot on his work and the
San?" Sheila's hands went out in a last appeal. "Send him to the Dentons;
they've had five years of experience for every year of Doctor Brainard's.
Please, please! Oh, don't you see?"
"Why should you care so much?" The words were off Peter's tongue before he
knew it. He would have given a good deal if he could have got them back.
The girl looked from him to Miss Maxwell. The question apparently
bewildered her. Then a hint of her old-time dignity and assurance
returned, coupled with her cryptic mood. "Plenty of reasons: he was Miss
Max's chief--she always worshiped him--your best friend, a most loved and
honored man in the profession. Isn't he? Well, this isn't the time or the
place for a risk."
The superintendent rose and looked down at the girl. When she spoke there
was a touch of annoyance in the tone as well as sadness. "And that's as
much--and as little--as you expect to tell us?"
Sheila nodded.
Miss Maxwell threw up her hands in a little gesture of helplessness.
"Leerie, Leerie, what are we going to do with you? It was this way even
three years ago."
In a flash the girl's arms were about the superintendent's neck, her face
buried on her shoulder; the words were barely audible to Peter, "Love me
and believe in me--as you did three years ago." And then a choking,
wet-eyed, and rather disheveled figure flew past him, out of the room.
Miss Maxwell sank back heavily into her chair; her face showed plainly her
battling between love for the girl, her sense of outraged discipline, and
her anxiety over the decision she must make. Peter watched her with a sort
of impersonal sympathy; the major part of his being had been plunged into
what seemed a veritable chasm of hopelessness. He tried to pull himself
together and realize that there was Dempsy to think about.
"What are you going to do?" he asked, at last.
"Do? You mean--about--?"
Peter nodded.
An almost pathetic smile crept into the superintendent's face. "As long as
you were here, anyway, it's rather a relief to be able to confess that I
don't know what to do. You see, superintendents are always supposed to
have infallible judgment on all matters," she sighed. "I have never but
once known Leerie to break a rule or ask for a special dispensation
without a reason--a good reason. But I don't understand what lies behind
all this."
"I do." Peter fairly roared it forth. "She loves that man, and she's
afraid this might ruin his career if--if anything happened. Why, it's as
plain as these four walls and the ceiling above us. No woman pleads for a
man that way unless she loves him better than anything else on God's
earth."
"I think you're wrong."
"Why?" Peter strode over to the superintendent's desk like a man after his
reprieve. "I'm not just curious. I've the biggest excuse in the world for
wanting to know why she has asked this. I love Sheila O'Leary. I love her
well enough to leave her to-night with the man she loves, provided he
loves her. But if he doesn't--if he's just playing with her, accepting her
as a sop to his vanity, as a lot of near-famous men will with a
woman--then, by thunder! I'm going to stay and fight him for her!
Understand?" And Peter's fist pounded the desk.
The superintendent smiled again. This time there was no pathos in it. "I
understand--and I'd stay. You ought to know Leerie well enough by this
time to know that she can fight for the right of anything, whether she
cares personally or not, and more than that, even if she has to suffer
for it herself. She's the only woman I have ever known who had that
particular kind of heroism. If she felt Doctor Brainard needed some one to
stand up for him, I believe she could plead better if she didn't care. And
I've another, a better reason for thinking she doesn't love him. She
refused at first to be his surgical nurse. She didn't consent until she
knew that he had made that one of the conditions of his coming here; he
stipulated that he must be allowed to bring his own anesthetist, operate
without an assistant, and choose his own operating nurse."
"And he choose her?"
"She is the best we have. Not using an assistant throws a tremendous
responsibility and strain on the nurse, and Doctor Brainard naturally
wanted the most expert one he could get."
"Then there was nothing personal--"
"I don't think so. Doctor Brainard has a strong influence over Leerie, but
I believe it is only what any surgeon with distinction and power would
have. If she really cared for Doctor Brainard, she wouldn't have said
what she did when I asked her to take the appointment."
"What did she say?" Peter leaned forward eagerly and gripped the edge of
the desk.
"She said she would rather be suspended for three more years than do it,
but if there was no one else, she guessed she could manage it for the
honor of the San."
"What did she mean?"
"Oh, that's just a by-phrase among those of us who have worked here a long
while and feel a certain loyalty and responsibility for the ideals of this
institution. We have tried to stand for honest, humane work as against
mere moneygrubbing and popularity."
"I see. That's why Dempsy sent me here; that's why he's coming himself.
Thank you, Miss Maxwell. I hope you're right." Peter straightened himself
and moved toward the door.
"Wait a minute, Mr. Brooks. How much do you know of what happened three
years ago?"
"Just what has dripped from the wagging tongues." Peter smiled ironically.
"Suppose I tell you the truth of it. It might help you to fight this
thing through. It certainly couldn't hurt your love for Leerie if you
really love her."
"Nothing could," said Peter, simply.
"Doctor Brainard and Leerie were the very best of friends during the years
she was training and he was working under Doctor Jefferson. Then I thought
it was love; they were always together, and there seemed to be a strong,
deep sympathy between the two. Just about the time she graduated things
began to go awry. Doctor Brainard was on the verge of a nervous breakdown
and Leerie seemed to be laboring under some bad mental strain. Then the
nurses began to hint that Leerie had been going to his room. One night,
when she was head night nurse in the Surgical and Miss Jacobs was fourth
corridor nurse, Miss Jacobs called me up at two in the morning and told me
Leerie had been in Doctor Brainard's room for an hour. I came at once and
found her there. She made no explanation, offered no excuses. She even
acknowledged that she had been there twice before at the same time."
"What did Brainard say?" Peter asked it through clenched teeth.
"Nothing then. But later, when he was called before the Board, he laughed
and asked what a man could say when a nurse chose to come to his room at
two in the morning."
"The cad!" and Peter swore under his breath.
"I should have believed in Leerie, anyway, but it was that laugh of Doctor
Brainard's that made me determined to fight for her. What motive Doctor
Brainard had for not defending her I don't know, but he acted like a
scoundrel."
"But why?" Peter beat the air. "Oh, the girl must have known she couldn't
run amuck with convention that way and not have it hurt her! Why did she
do it?"
The superintendent of nurses looked long and thoughtfully at him. "Do you
know, Mr. Brooks, if I happened to be the man who loved Sheila O'Leary, I
think I'd find that out as soon as I could. The answer might prove
valuable; it might solve the riddle why Sheila doesn't want Doctor Dempsy
operated on here."
"Well, is he going to be?"
"No, we'll take him on to the Dentons if he can be moved again after he
gets here."
But fate willed otherwise. When Doctor Dempsy arrived on the early train
there were no conflicting opinions as to his condition; it was critical,
and there would have to be an operation within twenty-four hours. Miss
Maxwell brought the news to Peter along with the doctor's wish that his
friend should be with him as long as the powers allowed.
"Does Leerie know?" asked Peter.
"She was present at the consultation."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing. But she looked very white and drawn. I'm afraid she hasn't slept
much."
"Good Lord! you don't believe she really thinks Brainard will bungle!"
But Miss Maxwell cut him short. "This is no time to bother with futile
suppositions. Please, Mr. Brooks! Remember that for all our sakes--Doctor
Dempsy's most of all--this is the time to keep our nerve and think only
one way." With a grave shake of the head she left him at the door of
Doctor Dempsy's room.
To Peter the day crept on at a snail's pace; to Sheila it galloped. Peter
saw her just once, when, at Doctor Dempsy's urgent wish, she came in for
a moment between operations, muffled to the eyes in her gown and mask.
"Come here, child." The old doctor held out a commanding hand and drew the
nurse close to the bed. "I've had something on my mind ever since I saw
your face this morning. Might as well say it now before I forget it." He
smiled up gently at the great, deep-gray eyes looking down wistfully at
him. "I imagine that you two youngsters may be fretting some over
to-morrow--seven A.M. Hey? Mean trick to saddle you with the
responsibility of an old, worn-out hulk like mine, with the chances
fifty-fifty on patching it up. What I wanted to say was that you mustn't
take it too hard if I don't patch. 'Pon my soul I sha'n't mind for
myself."
A voice called from the corridor outside, "Miss O'Leary, Doctor Brainard's
waiting."
Doctor Dempsy gave the hand inside the rubber glove a tight squeeze.
"Remember, Leerie, I know you'll keep the little old lantern burning for
me as long as you can, and here's good luck, whatever happens."
She went without a word. Peter had become vastly absorbed at the window
in watching Hennessy sweeping a gathering of leaves from the curb. When
he finally came back to his chair by the bedside he flattered himself that
his expression was beatifically cheerful and his voice perfectly steady.
As the day waned a storm gathered, and by nightfall the sanitarium and the
surrounding country were in the grip of a full-fledged equinoctial. Doctor
Dempsy was put to bed early, and Peter went back to his room in the main
building to write himself into a state of temporary forgetfulness, if he
could. He had tinkered with his pen, sharpened half a dozen pencils, and
mussed up as many sheets of paper when a knock brought him to his feet.
Sheila O'Leary stood at the door. Her lips were bravely trying to smile
away the haggard lines of the face.
Unconsciously Peter's arms went out to her as he repeated that old cry of
his in the days when he was a sufferer in the Surgical, "Why--why, it's
Leerie!" and his love seemed to pound through every syllable.
For the flash of a second the eyes of the girl leaped to his in answer,
but in another flash they seemed to have traveled miles away, looking back
at him with the sadness of a lost angel. "Yes, it's Leerie again--come
for help," she announced, tersely.
"All right." Peter tried to sound matter-of-fact.
"Don't ask questions; just do it. Will you?"
Peter nodded.
"You said once if you had to, you could drive through any storm, snow,
hail, or rain, that you had ever seen. Yes? Then get your car and take
Doctor Brainard out to-night. Take him anywhere, and keep him going till
he's so tired he's ready to drop. Talk to him, tell him stories, don't let
him talk about himself--or to-morrow. And bring him home when you think he
can sleep."
"Yes. What are you going to do?"
"Sleep, I hope." She turned to go, but came back again and laid a cold
hand in Peter's. "Thank you. Don't think I don't appreciate it."
"Wait a minute. As it happens, I haven't met Doctor Brainard, and there's
a perfectly good chance he may not care about joy-riding in a young
hurricane--even in my company," Peter ended ironically.
Leerie gave a little hollow laugh. "Oh, he'll go--don't worry. I'll bring
him down and introduce him. Ready in ten minutes?" And this time she was
gone.
Peter knew if he lived to the ripe old age of Solomon himself he should
never forget the smallest detail of that night--Doctor Brainard's curt,
almost surly greeting, the plunge into the car, and the start. After that
Peter felt like a mythological being piloting the elements. He headed for
a state road, and for miles, neither of them speaking, the car streaked
over what might have been the surface of the river of Lethe, or the strata
of mist lying above Niflheim, for all the feeling of reality and substance
it gave. He had the eery sensation that he might be forced to keep on and
on till the end of the world, like the Flying Dutchman. He wondered what
sin of his own or some one's else he might be expiating. They passed no
living or mechanical thing; they had the road, the night, the storm to
themselves. They might have gone ten miles or thirty before Doctor
Brainard broke the silence.
"Gad! but you can drive!"
"Thank you. Like it?"
"Not exactly. But it's better than thinking."
"Works the other way with me; this sets me thinking." A sudden, heavier
gust sent the car skidding across the road, and Peter's attention went to
his wheel. Righting it, he went on, "This is the second time in my life
I've felt something controlling me that was stronger than my own will."
"Nasty feeling. Lucky man if you've only felt it twice. What was it the
first time?"
"Fear. That's what brought me here."
Peter felt the eyes of the doctor studying him in the dark. "I heard about
your case. It was Leerie brought you through, too, wasn't it?"
Quick as a flash Peter turned. For the instant he forgot they were
speeding at a forbidden rate down slippery macadam in a tempest, with his
hand as the only controlling force. He almost dropped his wheel. "Why
'_too_'? Is she pulling you through something?"
He could hear a heavy intake of breath beside him. Unconsciously he knew
that his companion was no longer sitting limp with relaxed muscles. He
seemed to feel every nerve and fiber in the body of the surgeon growing
tense, which made his careless, inconsequential tone sound the more
strange when he finally spoke:
"That's an odd question to put to a doctor. I was referring to Leerie's
cases. She's pulled through hundreds of patients, you know; she's famous
for it."
"Yes, I know," answered Peter. His voice sounded just as careless, but the
hands that gripped the wheel were as taut as steel.
They swept on for another half-hour, the silence broken by an occasional
yawn from the surgeon. At last Peter slowed down and looked at his watch.
"Eleven-thirty. If we turn now we'll make the San about one. How's that
for bedtime?"
"Gad! I'm ready now," and the doctor yawned again.
Peter timed it to a nicety. It was five minutes past one as he dropped
Doctor Brainard at the Surgical, where he roomed. He was just driving off
when Miss Jacobs hurried out of the entrance.
"Oh, Mr. Brooks, wait a minute, please. Doctor Dempsy isn't resting very
well, and Miss Maxwell left word that if he called for you, you could sit
with him. We can't get him to sleep, and he does want you."
"All right. I'll leave the car and come back."
As Peter took his chair again by his friend's bedside his face was set to
as strong a purpose as Sheila O'Leary's had shown that day in the
sanitarium grounds. "Want me to talk, old man?" he asked, quietly. "Maybe
I can yarn you into forty winks. Shall I try?"
"Wish you would. It's funny how a man can go through this with a thousand
or so patients and it seems like an every-day affair, but when it's
himself--well, there's the rub." And the doctor smiled a bit sheepishly at
his own ungovernable nerves.
Peter gripped his hand understandingly. "I know. It's the difference
between fiction and autobiography as far as it touches your own sense of
reality. Well, to-night shall we try fiction? Ever since they pulled me
through here, I've had my mind on a yarn with a sanitarium or hospital for
a background and a doctor for a hero. All this atmosphere gets into your
blood. It keeps you guessing until you have to spin a yarn and use up the
material."
"Anything for copy, hey?" the doctor chuckled.
"That's about it. Well, my yarn runs about this way." With the skill of an
artist and the sympathy of a humanist--and the suppressed excitement of
one who has something at stake--Peter drew his two principal characters,
the conscientious, sensitive doctor possessed with the constant fear of
that hypothetical case he might lose some day, and the smooth, scheming
man a few years his senior who wanted to get his fellow-practitioner out
of the way and marry the girl they both loved. Peter made the girl as
adorable as a man in love might picture her.
"For a sixpence I'd wager you had fallen in love yourself." Doctor Dempsy
chuckled again. "I never before knew you to be so keen over feminine
charms."
"Just more copy," and Peter went on with the tale. "Well, the young chap's
horror and fear kept growing with each new case, and the other chap kept
sneering and suggesting that his nerves weren't fit, and his hand wasn't
steady, and he worked too slowly. He kept it up until he got what he
wanted; the young chap bungled his operation and lost his case."
"Poor devil! I know just what kind of torment he lived through." Doctor
Dempsy raised himself on an elbow and shook his head at Peter. "A case
like that may be fiction to you, but it's fact to us in the profession.
You have no idea how often a youngster's nerves fail him."
"Guess I'm getting the idea. But I need your help to finish the yarn. Of
course the hospital couldn't bounce him for losing one case. They would
have to prove first that he wasn't fit, wouldn't they?"
"They would have to make him out incompetent."
Peter nodded. Had there been more light in the room Doctor Dempsy might
have been startled at the unprecedented expression of cunning that had
crept into his friend's face. "I'm not up enough in medical matters to
know what I could prove against the young chap to put him out. You'll have
to help me. Just how could his rival oust him?"
"Accuse him of drugs," came the unhesitating answer. "That's the most
plausible, and it's what plays havoc with young surgeons quicker than
anything else. They feel their nerves going, and they take a hypodermic;
it steadies them until--it gets them. If you can make your villain
convince the staff that drugs are back of the lost case, you can get your
poor devil of a surgeon permanently disposed of."
Peter let out a long-drawn breath. "Thank you, Doc. You've helped me
out--considerably."
It does not in the least matter how Peter finished the tale. Before the
inevitable conclusion Doctor Dempsy dropped off to sleep, and no one but
Peter himself heard the final, "And they married and lived happy ever
after. By Jupiter they did!"
He slipped softly out of the room and stood a moment in the corridor,
wondering what he would do next. Sleep seemed unnecessary just then, as
well as undesirable. And as he stood there, innocent of all intention of
eavesdropping, he had that rare experience of hearing history repeat
itself. From around the bend of the corridor, out of sight, came the low
but distinct whisper of the night nurse's voice at the house 'phone.
"Miss Maxwell, Miss Maxwell, can you hear me? This is Miss Jacobs. Leerie
went to Doctor Brainard's room a half-hour ago. She's still there.... All
right." And then the soft click of the receiver dropping into place.
Peter stiffened; his hands clenched. His first impulse was to creep 'round
and quietly choke the tattle-tale breath out of Miss Jacobs. He knew how
the little green-eyed nurse was gloating over this second incrimination of
Leerie. But there was something more compelling to do first, something
that could not wait. He slipped 'round through the supply-room and down
the back stairs. He reached the first floor of the Surgical just as the
superintendent of nurses appeared in the entrance.
"You!" demanded Miss Maxwell.
"No one else," agreed Peter. "Suppose we go up together."
Peter could have almost laughed at the look of dumfounded amazement on the
superintendent's face. "You mean--Why, that's impossible! It isn't your
place--"
Peter cut her short. "Oh yes, it is. Remember the advice you gave me a few
hours ago. I'm here to find out what's back of it all, and no one is
going to stop me." His jaws snapped with an ominous finality.
Doctor Brainard opened to their knock, but he held the door so that barely
a corner of the room was visible, and he blocked the entrance.
"Open it wider!" commanded Peter. "We've come to stay a few minutes and
ask Miss O'Leary a few questions," and he thrust the surgeon quickly aside
and flung wide the door.
Sheila was sitting by a reading-lamp, an open book on her lap. She looked
as Peter had seen her in the early evening, only back of the tiredness and
pallor was a strange look of peace. To Peter she seemed a crucified saint
who had suddenly discovered that nail wounds were harmless. She smiled
faintly at them both. "I'm sorry it's happened again, Miss Maxwell. If
you'll just go away and try to forget about it until after the morning,
I'll send in my resignation and leave as soon as you can fill my place.
And can't we do it this time without any Board meeting? I'll promise never
to come back."
"Then there are going to be no explanations this time--either?" There was
pleading in the superintendent's voice, as well as infinite sadness.
The girl shook her head. "There's nothing to explain. I'm just here." She
folded her hands quietly on her lap. "Won't you please go?"
"No, we won't!" Peter thundered it forth. Then he turned to the surgeon,
and there was no pleading in his voice. "You cur! you cad! What have you
got to say?"
Doctor Brainard jumped as if Peter had struck him; for the instant he
seemed to find speech difficult. "Why--why, what do you mean? How dare
you--"
"I dare you," and Peter shot out each word with the directness of a
hand-grenade, "I dare you to stand up like a man and tell why Miss O'Leary
came here to-night. You sneaked behind her silence three years ago; don't
be a cursed coward and do it again."
The surgeon laughed a dry, unpleasant laugh. "It's easy to call another
man names--but it doesn't mean anything. And what right have you to ask me
to betray Miss O'Leary's silence?"
"Betray!" Peter fairly howled back the word at him. "Take off your coat.
Take it off, or I'll rip it off. Now roll up your sleeves--no, your left.
There, by Jupiter! Look, Miss Maxwell!"
Peter's demand was unnecessary. The eyes of the superintendent were
already fixed on the manifold tiny blue discolorations in the surgeon's
bare arm. "Cocaine." She almost whispered it under her breath, and then
louder, "How long?"
"Four years, about." The surgeon's voice was quite toneless; he seemed to
shrink and grow old while they watched him.
Miss Maxwell looked across at the girl, who was leaning forward, her face
in her hands, crying softly. Her eyes were bitterly accusing, and there
was abundant scorn in her voice when she spoke again to the surgeon. "So
Leerie has been shielding you all along and helping you to fight it. How
did she know?"
"I told her. I thought if some one with a courage and trust like hers knew
about it it might pull me together. God! I wish I'd killed myself three
years ago."
"Pity you didn't!" There was no mercy in Peter's voice. "But I suppose she
wouldn't let you; I suppose she held you together then as she's trying to
now. She's trying to save you for to-morrow--seven A.M.--and all the
to-morrows coming after. I--I think I'm beginning to understand." His arms
dropped dejectedly to his sides. For Peter there could be but one meaning
to Sheila's sacrifice and struggle.
But Miss Maxwell was holding fast to her cross-examination. "And I suppose
you promised Leerie three years ago if she'd keep silent you would fight
it through and break the habit. And that's why you've let no one but
Leerie and Miss Jacobs in the operating-room, so no one else would guess.
Did Miss Jacobs find out three years ago?"
Doctor Brainard nodded.
Words failed the superintendent, but her expression boded ill for the
little green-eyed nurse. "Well," she said, at length, "there's only one
thing that matters right now--are you or are you not going to be in a fit
condition to operate to-morrow?"
It was Leerie who answered. She was out of her chair at a bound and beside
the surgeon, her hand on his arm. "He's going to operate; he's got to.
There isn't another skilled hand like his nearer than the Dentons, so
he's got to bring Doctor Dempsy through. Please, Miss Maxwell, leave him
to me. I can manage. He's got four hours to sleep, and then I'll let him
have enough cocaine to steady him. Won't you trust me?"
"It's about the only way now."
Peter left unnoticed. He realized, as he had realized in the sanitarium
grounds that afternoon, that he counted about as much in this crisis as a
part of the inanimate surroundings. Miss Maxwell joined him a moment
later, looking outrageously relieved. She flashed Peter an apologetic
smile.
"I know it's shameless of me to look glad when you look so miserable. But
I can't help feeling that we are going to win. Leerie deserves it after
what she's suffered for him. That man couldn't fail her, and her trust is
bound to make good. Don't you see?"
Peter's shoulders gave an unconvincing shrug. "I hope so. He ought to--if
he's half-way a man." He looked at his watch. "Almost morning now. Guess
I'll pack my things and be ready to start as soon as I know Dempsy's all
right."
Miss Maxwell held him back for an instant. "I know you're thinking that
all's wrong with the world, but I know all's right. Go and pack if you
must, but please stay in your room until I send you word. Promise?"
And not caring, Peter promised.
From seven o'clock on Peter paced the room among his packed luggage and
counted the minutes. He wondered how long his patience would last and when
his misery would stop growing. The burden of both had become unbearable.
At eight-thirty a sharp knock sounded and he sprang to the door. On the
threshold stood a nurse in surgical wrappings, with eyes that shone like a
whole firmament of stars and a mouth that curved to the gentle demureness
of a nun. Peter stood and stared at this unexpected apparition of the old
Leerie.
"Well," said the apparition, smiling radiantly as of old, "I'm a messenger
of glad tidings. Won't you ask me to come in?"
Peter flushed and drew her to a chair.
"Oh, it was a wonderful operation. It seemed almost like performing a
miracle, and that blessed old doctor is coming out of the ether like a
baby."
"Maybe it was a miracle--the miracle of a woman's trust."
A look of rare tenderness swept into the girl's face. "Thank you. I wonder
if you know how often you say the kindest and most comforting thing." Then
she sobered. "He's made a brave fight, and it wasn't easy to pull himself
together, in the face of what he knew you were all thinking of him, and do
such a tremendous piece of work. I want you to understand. He's a
brilliant surgeon; it didn't seem right that he should be lost to himself
and the profession. And the best of it is, he isn't going to be. The San
is going to stand by him; every doctor on the staff is willing to help
him. As soon as Doctor Jefferson is back, Doctor Brainard is to stop work
until--until he's fit again. Isn't that splendid! Oh, I could sing! I keep
saying over those great Hebrew words of comfort, 'Weeping may tarry
through the night, but joy cometh in the morning.'"
"Yes," said Peter, dully. "I'm glad joy has come for you. May I wish you
and Doctor Brainard all success and happiness?"
Sheila's eyes looked into Peter's with a sudden intensity. "You may--but
not together. Have you actually been thinking that I loved Doctor
Brainard?" A hint of the old bitterness crept into her voice. "I can pity
a man like that, but love him--love weakness and selfishness--and the
willingness to betray a woman's honor--no! Three years ago he killed
whatever personal feeling I might have had for him, and he made me hate
all men."
"And you're still hating them?" Peter held fast to his rising hopes while
he hung eagerly on her answer.
"No. Ever since a fine, strong, unselfish man came into my life it has set
me loving all mankind so scandalously that I'm afraid the only way to make
me respectable is--for some man to marry me." Leerie's arms went out to
Peter in complete surrender. "Oh, Peter--Peter--it's morning!"
But it was almost noon before Peter began to think intelligently again,
and then he remembered something, something that ought to be done. "I
think," he said, "I think we ought to go out and tell Hennessy and the
swans; we sort of owe it to them."
And it all ended even as Peter had prophesied in his yarn by Doctor
Dempsy's bedside.